


petit mon frere de la fere

by orphan_account



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon, F/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Series, thomas pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:25:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3555938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She says her name is Anne de Bruil, but he doesn’t recognize it from anywhere. Her accent is not foreign enough to be noticed in a casual conversation, but as he begins picking her apart from a distance, he hears a roughness behind her speech that comes from the gutter, a lilt that comes from somewhere south he can’t quite place.</p>
<p>Of course Olivier wouldn’t know, Thomas consoles himself.</p>
<p>Olivier had never been to the gutter, and furthermore was blinded by her beauty. And, although Thomas was reluctant to admit it, she was beautiful. Moreso than his own betrothed, who even now smarted at being moved down the line of succession, who stuck insults into Anne like knives over dinner, but the woman managed to avoid every pointed question, laugh off every sly dig, and retort even quicker than Catherine could think.</p>
<p>But Thomas – Thomas was not blinded. He saw, yes – he saw the high cheekbones and the tumble of chocolate curls, he saw the long eyelashes and the emerald irises, he saw the red mouth, but he also saw the stubborn set of her jaw and the quick flick of her eyes as she assessed them all, like a cutthroat.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pre-series - Thomas' account of Athos and Milady's marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	petit mon frere de la fere

Thomas doesn’t understand what that woman has done to his brother.

Olivier was usually a sensible, measured man. But then one day he came home with that whore on his arm, all fluttering eyelashes and a cat-like grin, and she hadn’t left the next morning.

A month in, and they were beginning to act like she wasn’t leaving _ever._

It was completely out of character for Olivier, or Athos as _she_ liked to call Olivier by their mother’s maiden name, for whatever reason – instead of seeing to the business of La Fere, he began gallivanting around the fields all day, coming back with straw in his hair and red, puffy lips. Instead of seeing to the upkeep of La Fere, that duty had fallen to Thomas, as all Olivier seemed to do for the estate anymore was parade his lovely new betrothed around the town and accept the congratulations of all the townspeople. Sometimes they came back with armfuls of bread and baskets of fish, with silk and little trinkets, and Olivier says _yes, they may have gotten a_ bit _carried away,_ before smiling at Thomas as she pulls him away with some cloth of some kind.

Sometimes it felt like they didn’t emerge from their bedchambers for days at a time.

Thomas knew that all the people were laughing at Olivier behind his back. Some common woman from God knows where ensnaring the Comte de la Fere? It was a scandal, and they may begin to get ideas, now that one of _them_ had somehow raised her status. No wonder they smiled so when they saw her in the town.

She says her name is Anne de Bruil, but he doesn’t recognize it from anywhere. Her accent is not foreign enough to be noticed in a casual conversation, but as he begins picking her apart from a distance, he hears a roughness behind her speech that comes from the gutter, a lilt that comes from somewhere south he can’t quite place.

Of course Olivier wouldn’t know, Thomas consoles himself.

Olivier had never been to the gutter, and furthermore was blinded by her beauty. And, although Thomas was reluctant to admit it, she was beautiful. Moreso than his own betrothed, who even now smarted at being moved down the line of succession, who stuck insults into Anne like knives over dinner, but the woman managed to avoid every pointed question, laugh off every sly dig, and retort even quicker than Catherine could think.

But Thomas – Thomas was not blinded. He saw, yes – he saw the high cheekbones and the tumble of chocolate curls, he saw the long eyelashes and the emerald irises, he saw the red mouth, but he also saw the stubborn set of her jaw and the quick flick of her eyes as she assessed them all, like a cutthroat.

Thomas wondered how long she had waited to make his brother her prey. He didn’t believe the story they had just bumped into each other by chance on the street and gotten talking, although Olivier did.

He saw the calculator behind the façade – she could not love Olivier. She may have loved his money, but she couldn’t love Olivier.

What could a woman like her love about Thomas’ stubborn, secretive, bottled up, boring brother? No, it couldn’t be love, not like they both claimed.

If she was lucky she’d be a high end whore in any other world, but in a world where Olivier fell in love at a most inopportune time she was to be the Lady of de la Fere over a hundred women of Olivier’s station desperate for the same opportunity.

Thomas just had to prove it.

She lies in in the mornings, and Thomas has one of the staff watch both doors until she leaves. He tries to see if anything is missing – some silver candlesticks maybe, mother’s jewels perhaps. But she doesn’t wear jewels, not necklaces or rings or bracelets, perhaps in the opinion she does not require them, only crowns of forget-me-nots and chain of the little blue flowers soon litter the hallways of the house, but quickly go brown and rot.

Like her, Thomas thinks bitterly as Olivier runs the back of his knuckles along her cheek, and she kisses him on the tip of his nose, and they both chuckle at a secret joke no one else had heard.

Masquerading as something fresh, sweet and beautiful. Filth inside.

Olivier and Anne marry in a small ceremony, although Thomas had tried to convince his brother to have a more opulent display, Olivier refused.

“Anne doesn’t care for shows of love and affection,” Olivier told him “What we have is more special than that.”

They wed outside, on a windy, sunny day and by the end of it Catherine’s hair is so ruined she has to go and fix it before joining them for the feast that traditionally follows a wedding – not that anything about this particular wedding is at all traditional.

Her bouquet has no roses, no lilies and no daffodils – there is only a posy of forget-me-nots that she grips so hard the stalks are bent when she throws them over her shoulder, laughing, and they all scatter in the wind so none can be caught. They look like they were gathered that morning, and Thomas barely stops his lip curling up in distaste when he sees that beneath the long hem of her white dress, her feet are bare and caked with brown dust.

Perhaps, he thinks, it was a good thing none of the rest of the aristocracy had come. It would not pay for them to see his brother so humiliated by his bride.

But Olivier, of course, does not even seem to notice. He doesn’t stop grinning all the way through the reception and won’t stop kissing his bride, on her cheek, her forehead, her lips, her knuckles, sometimes even on the side of her neck which is entirely improper for polite company.

Thomas is glad, suddenly, that he doesn’t love Catherine if this is what love does to people.

It takes him another year and a half before someone recognises the name Anne de Bruil, and even then he has to describe her for them to know they have the right woman.

“I wasn’t sure that was her name,” the old man who recognized the name said “she went by another, sometimes. Milady de Winter, that was it.”

So then he begins searching for Milady de Winter, and the things he finds then.

A thief. A beggar. A whore. Some even said murderer.

Victory was sweet on Thomas’ tongue as he rode back to La Fere at breakneck speed, and the thought that finally the natural order of things would be restored kept him warm in the night. Olivier would have to cast her aside, take Catherine off of Thomas’ hands, and soon this whole thing would be little more than a memory.

When Thomas arrives home, Olivier greets him with his customary hug, and asks if he had a good trip.

_Yes,_ Thomas wants to say, _I have found out how to save us all, how to open your eyes to what your darling wife really is._ But he just says it was satisfactory, and he is tired.

So then Thomas mounts the stairs and walks to the drawing room, where Anne de Bruil is waiting. She spins, an expectant smile on her face which dampens slightly when she realizes that he is not her darling Athos.

In reply, Thomas grins too, which seems to confuse her some, probably because he doesn’t smile at her.

“Out!” he orders the servants, who obey. They know their place, he thinks, looking at the woman before him. Why couldn’t you? Why couldn’t you just stay away, stay in the gutter where you belong?

“Thomas,” Anne begins, a question in her eyes “What is this?”

“This,” he says, walking towards her as the doors shut with a resounding click behind her “is the end of you, _Milady_.”

Abruptly the colour leaves her face, and her eyes fly wide. She steps away from him, legs knocking into the desk in the centre. Her blasted forget-me-nots in a jar wobble over the edge and smash all over the floor.

“W-what?” she breathes, before straightening up “Who is Milady?”

He laughs at her attempt of a cover up, the sound reverberating around the room and sounding cruel. Her hand shakes.

“We’re alone. Don’t pretend, not to me. It took me a while, but I learned all your dirty little secrets, Milady, Anne, whoever you are. I think I know more about the real you than my brother.”

“You can’t tell him.” She blurts, and he smiles at the confirmation.

“What would stop me?” he asks, letting his gaze deliberately drags down her body, and she shivers. Why not scare the bitch? Why not treat her like the whore she was?

“I _love_ him,” she says, stepping away from him even more and clasping her hands behind her back.

At that, Thomas really can’t contain his laugh. “You love his title, you love his money. You don’t love _him._ ”

She seems genuinely shocked by his answer, but he knows after these years that she is a good actress, even a great one. “I love him,” she insists.

“He won’t love you much longer.” He snaps, and turns to leave, success and victory filling his chest. He’s won, and she knows it.

“Stop!” she shouts, but he keeps going. “Stop right there!”

Thomas doesn’t even dignify her with an answer, and reaches the door, his hand curling around the brass door knob. He thinks he’s going to say something like _go back to the gutter_ or _run and you may live_ or something along those lines, but then something sharp and cold is thrust into his back.

He stumbles away from the door, eyes wild as his hands fly to the dagger in his chest, and fingers suddenly lacking enough strength to pull it out, to run, to even shove her away.

“I told you,” she says as he falls to the floor, legs giving way. “I told you to stop. You made me do this.”

She kneels slowly by where he’s lying, and he can’t get up, can’t shout, there’s blood in the back of his throat and he’s going to die here, he’s going to die on the drawing room floor with her fucking forget-me-nots lying beside him.

“I haven’t in so long,” she says, almost dreamily, and her face begins to fade, along with the room.

The last thing Thomas d’Athos de la Fere heard was Anne de Bruil, saying “I love him.”

And, as he fell into the void, Thomas finally believed her.


End file.
